Calling Home
by Ranowa Hikura
Summary: Tag to Fannysmackin'. Greg's really trying to be a good CSI. No matter how much Sara tries to convince him he already is, it's Grissom who sealed the deal. Sandle friendship.


Okay. Complete honesty. I know nothing about CSI. I just very recently started watching reruns on USA of random episodes, and because my type is socially awkward lab rats (or silver haired anime guys :D ), looked up a few Greg whump episodes. (Once I figured out his name. I confused him with Ryan Wolfe for a week or two). I know maybe half the characters' names, and probably can't write any very well because I don't _know_ them. For example, Sofia's not here, even though she was in canon, because I know jack shit about her. But I needed to take a short break from my novel and just bust out the angst I love to write that I simply can't in my novel- and screw around with stream of consciousness without heavy editing to make a single, underlying theme throughout.

That's what this was originally going to be written for; I just wanted to write something that I could be content with not beating into perfection. I was actually minutes away from posting the 'finished' product when I got news that my professor had died. Dr. Thomas taught me that as an artist, what I produce had better damn well be my best effort and my finest quality, and anything short of that isn't fit to be set out to be seen and enjoyed. If I''m not entirely satisfied with something, then go back and work until I am- don't publish something to later regret. What I had written before wasn't something I was satisfied with. Now, I am.

* * *

Evidence:

Blood and fabric under his fingernails.

Saliva on his jacket.

Transfer on the Denali.

Greg frowned, head pounding. Was that it? Shoe impressions in blood were very tricky on asphalt; it was unlikely he'd coughed up enough for a decent footprint to be left behind. What about descriptions? He had one. One of- one of many; he couldn't count an exact number, and he cursed himself for that, cursed himself for being able to count the number of compounds through a gas chromatograph but not the number of people through his eyes. One single description was a penny's worth of what he could've gotten from that animalistic mob.

But who knew what the others would find on the scene. Maybe more information was left behind; maybe they'd beaten that precious information into his skin when they'd yanked him through shattered glass to smash his face into concrete. He had to trust the others would come and process what he now couldn't. Because god he wanted to move and start processing himself, he just... was having trouble moving...

Backup was coming, right? He'd called for backup? He couldn't remember; everything had just happened so fast- god, what if he hadn't? What if he'd stumbled his way into hell to save a man's life only to condemn them both to death, dying on the back streets of Vegas when help came too late?

He could feel his phone in his pocket, weighing heavier than iron over his chest and constricting each half choked breath. Reaching for it was another story, and he moaned aloud, distraught. Getting to his phone was an impossibility; dialing and speaking would be another nightmare entirely. And that was assuming the phone even still worked.

He was just too weak, and it hurt too much.

Wait- too weak? Too hurt?

Greg spat out a globule of blood. Too weak and too hurt sounded like little more than a whining excuse. It sounded like something Hodges would give, trapped in the lab and content with samples and evidence, away from danger and heartbreak.

He wasn't Hodges. He was _CSI Sanders._

Broken fingers fumbled, energy fueled by utter desperation only because he was completely out of strength; he felt the smooth surface of his phone, bloody thumb sliding weakly over the plastic. It took only a trembling nudge, and thank god for gravity; the phone at last slid off his vest to smack against the ground. Except he couldn't see, darkness as absolute as a starless night cloaking him and his world, so he just turned it over in an almost limp hand, fingers scrabbling for purpose and hunting over a blood-slicked screen for the one button he needed.

 _Redial._

 _Come on, come on, come on, redial please redial... PLEASE..._

When he heard it ringing, Greg was so relieved he almost passed out.

God only knew how he managed to hit speaker.

" _Hey, Greg, where are you? Catherine's been calling Grissom; why aren't you at the crime scene yet?"_

He smiled through the blood.

Sara.

" _Hey, Greg, you there?"_

"Sa... ra..."

" _Greg, what's going on? Are you okay?"_

Greg sucked in a trembling breath, fighting to focus. He had to say something. He had to get her to understand. He had to find the strength to talk and he had to do it now; he _had_ to get CSI down here. "He... hel... help. Help... Sara..."

" _Greg?! Greg! Oh, god- GRISSOM!- Greg, stay on the line, just stay on the line for me. -GIL! Gil, trace this call, it's Greg, something's happened- Greg, just hang on for us, okay? We're tracing the line, we'll be there soon!"_

" _Sara, we don't have to- dispatch just called it in."_

Oh. So he had called for backup after all.

Darkness hit faster than a blow to the head.

" _I'm on my way, Greg, right now! ...Greg? Greg, say something! GREG!"_

* * *

People came at last, intrusive hands pushing at him and shifting him and making him hurt. People and sirens, an incessant wailing in his ears that his pounding headache latched upon and grew like a parasitic fungus, and voices, questions and orders and so much confusion and noise it felt almost like a dream. Except dreams didn't hurt, and in dreams he wasn't terrified for his life.

He moaned, head rolling away from the noise. There was a moment of silence, blessed silence, then it returned full force. "Guys, this one's conscious! Mr. Sanders, I'm a paramedic. Try and stay still for me, please." There was a pressure on his wrist that made him hiss, and the hold immediately switched to his other hand. "Pulse high; probable broken wrist, breathing sounds like broken ribs. Definite internal bleeding. Can't do field test for concussion in this condition but probable. Sir? Mr. Sanders? Can you hear me?"

He attempted a yes; all that came out was a garbled grumble.

A latex gloved hand passed over his arms and chest, probing for more injuries. In hurt in ways Greg didn't even know were possible and he cried out through a bruised, ravaged throat.

There was a relieved sigh, and then: "Good. Good, that's very good. Mr. Sanders, my partner and I are going to have to leave you for a minute. It's just that you're stable, the other two are not."

Wait- other two?

He struggled to think, pounding head fighting to grasp what had been said. Other two. There were two others here. The earlier man being attacked, of course he was one... had there been two victims? He could've sworn there was only one. But no one else had come- what was he missing?

"T...two...?" he struggled, garbled voice lifting up in a question.

"Yeah, one guy was beaten like you, other looks like he was hit by a car."

Hit by a car? They'd driven off- maybe they'd hit one of their own? He didn't remember it, though... and he'd been trying so hard to think like a CSI, giving everything he had to remember details and faces and not just an unending stream of violence and agony, but he couldn't remember this?

His foot tingled, and he found it twitching on the pavement, pressing down over what suddenly felt akin to a gas pedal. He heard the screeching tires, felt the panic of a split second, terror fueled choice... saw the body crumple...

 _I hit someone._

 _God, I hit someone._

Greg wished to fall asleep again, and this time, not wake up.

* * *

At some point, Sara appeared, an enveloping scent of coconut oil and reassurance. The moment her hand slid into his hair was the moment he could breathe again, just her presence by his side so comforting, so needed, so, just, _perfect-_ it made his heart hurt in a way he didn't understand, and for the briefest of seconds he just wanted her to hold him and never let go.

She wouldn't listen no matter how much he begged, sitting with him on the bloodied street and holding his broken hand in a feather light touch when he finally was taken into an ambulance. He wanted to want her to stay behind and process the scene, he really did; CSI Greg Sanders should want the scene to be processed above all else. Evidence taken care of, suspects named, god he couldn't even give a description... he really, really wanted to be a good CSI. So he told her to stay. He wanted to want her to stay behind.

When she didn't, he found himself more grateful than he'd ever been in his life.

The wailing sirens only made his head hurt worse, and he pleaded for something, anything to be given to make the pain stop. He couldn't give evidence through this bloodcurdling agony, and evidence was the only reason he was still fighting to hang on.

"Please?" he whispered, voice rough and stripped of everything but need.

Sara tried to convince, too, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.

"Not authorized to, CSI Sidle. With the head injury, we have to wait for doctor's orders."

Despair hit him harder than before, and, helplessly, Sara's fingers returned to slide lightly through his hair. He felt them shaking. She murmured words he could no longer comprehend, but her presence meant far more than any words could.

"Guy I hit... is h-he...?"

Sara's hand found his arm, curling to squeeze so gently he barely felt it. The pressure still made him gasp and her hand yanked back; sudden, apologetic. "Don't worry about him, Greg," she said quietly, her voice floating over him in a comforting cloud. The fingers returned to his hair, slow and so gentle he could not stand it.

For the first time, he started to cry.

When they reached the hospital, adrenaline was fading, the high from a beatdown in hidden alleys of Vegas's seventh circle of hell leaving him crashing in the wake of a sleepless night. He hung onto Sara's hand still, broken fingers clenched around hers- pain all there was to keep him awake anymore, and he still really needed to stay awake. He hadn't been processed yet. Sara hadn't even asked him about what had happened yet.

He needed to give everything he could first. Then, he could sleep.

Even if he would've given anything to just go to sleep right now and stay that way until everything had melted back into the nightmare it felt like.

"Greg..." Sara called, voice distant and muted under layers of suffering. "Greg, please let go. You're hurting yourself." Her fingers squirmed in his. "Greg..."

He hung on still, reluctant and hesitant. If he let go of Sara and she left and he fell asleep- she wouldn't be able to interview him. He wouldn't be able to answer the important questions. He wouldn't be able to _help._

He could hear Grissom now, for god's sakes. _If you really want to be a CSI, suck it up and actually help with the investigation. Getting beat down in the field doesn't help a thing unless you give us evidence, and even then it's only second best to actually doing your job._

Never mind he couldn't really believe Grissom would actually say that. What mattered was that he could hear Grissom's voice taunting him and he knew Imaginary Grissom was _right._ If he couldn't provide evidence from right smack dab in the middle of a crime scene then what kind of a CSI was he ever going to make?

There was another latex gloved hand pulling at his fingers now, very carefully and gently. Another murmured voice. "Ma'am, we're going to have to sedate him if you can't convince him. We can't force it with his hand broken like this. I understand you wanted his statement as soon as possible..."

Sara leaned closer, and when she spoke he could hear her voice trembling. With what, he didn't know. "Greg, please? I'll stay with you, but you need to let go of me so I can treat you."

"Ma'am, you can't-"

"This man was a victim of a gang of killers. They attacked four people last night, and if I don't get to know what CSI Sanders saw now they could attack another. I'm not leaving him until I know what I need to know."

There was a tense silence, and then, the squeaky sound of a bed rolling down a hallway, but no further talk. Greg tried to take that as permission to relax, but it was hard. Sara was here as CSI Sidle. That was good. He could do that. He was evidence to be processed. He processed evidence. This was okay. He could handle this.

He could handle CSI Sidle right now. He couldn't handle Sara.

Her hand returned to his head again, gentle and slow, and she spoke once more. "Greg, they need to do a few tests. I can't be in the room for that. You need to let go of my hand, Greg."

But if he couldn't handle Sara, then why was it so hard for him to let her go?

" _Bli hos meg. ...B-bli... vær sa snill..."_

Again, there was silence. He could feel the tension in the sterile air and struggled to breathe in, the question he couldn't bring himself to ask forced out in the only way he could allow it. Sara couldn't answer him, she couldn't even understand him, and that was okay. He'd just needed to give in for one bare moment and ask her not to leave; that was all he'd needed, one moment to slip and be just _Greg_ and not a CSI- whatever her answer was didn't matter. He didn't want an answer. He didn't want her to even hear him slipping like that, asking her to do something so pathetic, so weak; he _was_ a CSI, and so was she. This was about the job, nothing more. This had to be about the job. He didn't want it about everything else. CSI Greg Sanders needed to be competent and give all the information and evidence he had.

He didn't feel very much like a CSI right now, though.

He felt like a child. He felt exactly like he had after those bullies had found him head buried in a chemistry textbook during gym and he'd only been able to tell them to stop in Norwegian- because they'd laughed when he'd said it in English. Helpless. Defeated. Beaten in more ways than one. Disgustingly weak. ...Hurt.

 _Stay with me, Sara. Please._

Then, Sara answered him.

" _Jeg lover."_

His heart almost stopped.

In his speechless shock, the crushing hold his broken hand had on hers dropped, and before he knew it, he was being wheeled away from Sara.

 _I promise._

 _Sara..._

* * *

Greg regained consciousness again at the return of Sara, this time to the steady click of a camera. Bright flashes he couldn't see through swollen eyes, carefully detached photos of his face and neck, hands and back, shoulders and stomach. He smiled through a split lip and bloodied teeth. In his first oh so exciting testimony in court, they'd put blown up images of the victim's injuries and he'd showed how they'd found the killer's distinctive bootprint among layers of bruises and hurts. How many boot prints were on him now? How many times had he been stepped on, kicked...

He shuddered at the idea of how horrible he must look, and just the thought of pictures of _him_ like _this_ put up in a courtroom for everyone to see. His bile rose, and he almost threw up.

"Greg?" There was a pause in the flashes, the sound of footsteps approaching. "You all right?"

Getting himself under control was an ordeal, as was struggling to stop his gag reflex and the horrid mental images and the disgust when he realized _Sara_ was seeing him in such a state.

"G-go ahead," he finally managed, voice congested through a broken nose and thin through support only by the shallowest of breaths. "I know what you have to do. ...Start asking questions." He wouldn't give himself permission to fall asleep again, not now that she was finally here and he could focus well enough to give her the answers she needed. He'd been somehow holding on since they'd left him in that alleyway. He could find the strength to hold on for a little more.

He heard her gently set the camera against the bed and waited for the inevitable. He wanted her to get it over with and go. He wanted her to do her job then leave him alone, let him sleep and break in private. He wanted to know if the kid he'd hit was going to be okay. He wanted to know if he'd done enough to help the man being attacked.

He wanted too much to put into words.

"Okay, Greg. Just start from the beginning. Take your time."

And Sara surely knew well the internal turmoil that had gripped him now in its fiery claws; that she did not try to get him to explain it meant everything to him. He breathed a silent thank you, glad beyond words it was Sara here now and not one of the others.

"I was dr-driving to the scene... Grissom wanted me to pick up... some evidence."

"Alone?" Sara asked. He heard another click of the camera.

Greg chuckled painfully. "Said I was a big boy. Didn't need a wingman." Emotions surged again, threatening to overwhelm him; a sob started to grow in his throat.

Sara's hand found his shoulder again, resting lightly, and he found himself internally bracing for the assurance that everything was going to be okay. He just didn't want to hear it now. Lying here feeling beaten to a pulp, another man in this hospital solely because of him, and this violent, brutal, vicious gang of- of _animals_ still roaming the streets- this was as far away from okay as one could get.

But Sara said nothing.

She simply took two more pictures, then backed away for a moment, touch vanishing. "I know you can't see me yet. I'm going to touch your throat."

Again, Sara had known exactly what he needed to hear, or, rather, didn't need to hear, and she had accommodated him. He grinned through the pain, roiling and uncertain emotions latching on to this godsend of a woman and not letting go.

The stiff, cold plastic of a ruler met his bruised skin and he fought not to pull away, flinching still at the next flash. "I need to check your stomach and back, okay?"

She was asking for permission, and that bothered him, for some reason. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and lay still, skin crawling, embarrassment rising, as he felt Sara drop a blanket over his lower half and adjust it so it reached up to his waist, then roll up the gown. The ruler returned, pressing against aches and pains and hurts, and he struggled to lie still, trying not to think of what was happening.

"My, uh... my mom's my emergency contact," he said abruptly, voice hoarse and shaking. "Please don't call her."

Sara paused at that, the pressure of the ruler pressing into his skin easing for a moment. "...I think she'd really want to be here, Greg."

He shook his head again, the thought of her finding out about this enough to make him cry out. She hadn't let him leave the house for a week after his fight with the bullies at school- he'd been so mad at her until he heard up late the first night, crying. She'd been devastated then. If she saw him like this...

"Please, Sara," he choked out. "...She'll be so worried..."

A long moment later, then there was another camera click, and a gentle squeeze on his uninjured hand.

"I promise, Greg."

A few snaps later, and she continued on, having waited until he could control himself again to ask him more questions. "When you saw the gang attacking the other victim, what did you do?"

He sniffled, then winced. "Called for backup." Good, standard CSI answer. Something he could give and feel no shame in. Something he could say and not second guess himself, wondering _what would Nick Warrick Grissom do? What would Sara or Catherine do?_

Sara confirmed it anyway. "Good. I would've done the same, even with my gun. Deep breath, Greg, this'll hurt."

Breathing deeply was far easier said than done, and his teeth gnawed into his lip like a dog's bone when the ruler returned to press against a set of broken ribs. Two more pictures until she withdrew leaving him to exhale in a shuddering gasp, stunned in agony. Her hand squeezed his, the gesture conveying raw apology and regret, and he squeezed back as soon as he had regained enough control to manage it.

"You were told to wait for backup," Sara said, after giving him another few seconds. "Why didn't you?"

Another CSI-esque answer, one was he confident in giving. "They wouldn't stop. I couldn't wait. ...They were going to kill him, Sara." He knew the others wouldn't have waited. They wouldn't have been able to- and neither had he.

He could still see it... so many hooded figures of violence personified, striking out at the defenseless man huddled alone on the dirty street...

Sara sighed, sounding resigned, somehow. She patted his shoulder again, then continued. "Need to get some pictures of your back, too. Can you roll onto your side for me?"

He sure as hell could try. Grunting through gritted teeth, his good hand struggled to find purchase against the mattress and pushed. Greg was glad he couldn't see now, didn't _want_ to see the look on Sara's face as he fought to even turn over, or the pity when she had to help him. He ducked his head, breathing hard through pain and embarrassment both, and at last lay still, allowing the CSI to repeat the evidentiary procedures with whatever wounds there were on his back.

"Explain what happened next for me, please."

His shaking hand curled into a fist, emotions rising again. "...I drove into the alley. Tried to scare them off. They didn't even... didn't even care." He shook his head weakly, remembering the horrified disbelief when they'd _just kept kicking him._ "I had to turn on the sirens. Scared off most."

Another few clicks; the ruler moved against his back. "Most?"

Greg took in a shuddering breath, broken hand twitching into a trembling fist that screamed with pain yet still anchored him in the here and now. "One just wouldn't go. He stayed. He just wouldn't leave. I couldn't... I couldn't scare him... h-he looked at me, Sara." He rushed to get out the description, those brilliant white eyes etched forever in his mind's eye and making him shake. "He was black. Taller than average. Pretty thin. Hoodie. H-his eyes were..." Understanding hit him and he hurried to talk even faster. "He was wearing contacts! Really bright contacts. White. Like a costume. Sara, I know I can describe him! I can talk to a sketch artist. I know I can."

There was an uncomfortable pause, broken only by the CSI continuing to work in near silence. She snatched a few other pictures, quick and efficient, then stepped away again for a moment. "You won't need to, Greg," she said at last, softly. "Remember? We've got him."

Greg frowned, momentarily confused. They'd arrested him? When? How? How would he remember...

Oh.

He nodded stiffly again, horrible regret rising for him to choke on once more. "...He picked up a rock, Sara," he whispered, praying for her to understand. "He looked at me and he wouldn't run. He... he picked up a rock... he was going to hit the man with it. He was going to hit him. It was so big... it would've killed him. I _know_ it would've killed him, Sara."

Sara paused, fingers resting against his hair for the briefest of moments. "You did the right thing, Greg."

He shook his head desperately. "N- no. That's not... he looked at me again, Sara. And he came at me. He came at me with the rock... he wouldn't stop... why wouldn't he stop, I had a damn car all he had was a rock, why didn't he just _run away?!_ "

"Oh, Greg..."

He lowered his head again, shrinking away from the hand he knew was coming. "I hit him. I- I... I hit him. ...He's okay, right, Sara? I didn't- he's okay? Please?"

This was the moment he'd dreaded. Admitting what he'd done- that was the moment he crossed between CSI and pathetic lab rat. Warrick would've kept his head on and backed out of the alley, drawing the man away from the scene without hurting him. Nick would've pulled his weapon and beaten him down before he'd ever picked up the stupid rock. Grissom would've- he didn't know what Grissom would've done.

But one thing none of them would have done is freaked out.

None of them would've lost control.

He'd just been so damn _scared._

"Greg," Sara began after a moment, and he felt the bed shift as she moved to sit at his hip. "He would've thrown the rock at you. If it would've killed Mr. Tanner, it would have- ...it would have killed you. You were in a terrible situation and made a split second decision. I can't say what I would or wouldn't have done myself. But I certainly can not, and never would, condemn the choice you made. Demetrius James is in surgery now, and I'm not going to lie to you, Greg- it could go either way. The doctors are thinking he'll pull through, but they won't make any promises."

 _Could go either way._

 _Could. Go. Either. Way._

 _Demetrius James..._

A name to a face. A name to a person. A human being.

A human being he'd rammed his car into without even a second thought.

Sara said something else, whatever it was completely lost to the descending cloud of despair that cloaked him thoroughly and shut him off from whatever excuses or platitudes she was going to try to give him. Demetrius had had a rock. He'd had a four thousand pound hunk of metal. How many choices had he had? How many dammed choices had he had? And he'd chosen that one symbolization of cowardice...

Demetrius crunching over the hood of the car like a rag doll, crumpling limp and unmoving...

"Greg? Greg, can you hear me?"

He nodded desperately, fighting every urge within him to ignore the world and ignore Sara and sink into himself and not wake up. He had to keep on going. He had to let Sara finish. He had to answer every question she had.

Even if he'd been wrong: he couldn't do this.

"I hit Demetrius," he forced out, voice sinking into a trembling monotone that threatened to break with every word. "I hit him with the car, and he went down. Then... then..." Everything so fast, everything so out of control- he didn't remember- shattering glass, his heart jumping up to his throat- "They knocked out the Denali's back windshield. I guess some must have circled around..." He shook himself off speculation, forcing himself to iterate only the facts. "Then, uh, the driver's window was knocked out, and they-. They grabbed me. They pulled me out." He stretched his fingers, broken one shaking in agony, feeling himself try and catch onto the door or seatbelt or- _anything_ once again, his heart pounding so hard in sheer terror he could not breathe.

"Greg," Sara whispered once again. The level of emotion in that one word was undeniable; her voice cracked and then broke under the weight of it. One warm climbed to clasp softly over his unbroken one.

He swallowed the rising lump in his throat and went on. "There were a lot of them. I tried to count but there were just..." He trailed off and shook his head. All he remembered was a blur of swinging feet and catcalls, masked faces flying everywhere and jeering, laughing...

He could never say it aloud, but he had had been terrified out of his mind.

He'd thought he was going to die.

"I tried to run. I ran but they... grabbed me... threw me against the wall..." He touched his faec, feeling for the mark he remembered being hewn into his skin by the brick, then gasped. Horrified, he trailed over the swollen canvas of bruises and cuts, so disfigured it did not even feel human. Deep gashes, some bandaged, some not, little canyons his finger found to trail over; swollen hills that absolutely did _not_ match the contours of a face over his cheeks, his chin, his _eyes._ His fingers stumbled over a long, thick layer of gauze around his head, covering his hair; the few strands he could find at the edge of the bandage were matted with blood and grime.

He'd just gotten his hair colored again. He'd just gotten his damn hair colored his beloved silly mix of platinum blond and dusty brown, and now it was all medical fixings and blood.

Another warm, calloused hand wrapped around his, this time cautiously lowering it to his lap. It didn't stop it from trembling, because Sara's hand was trembling, too. He didn't realize until he heard a high-pitched, unsteady gasp that he wasn't the only one crying.

Shaken, Greg took more than a few seconds to compose himself enough to go on.

"I don't know how long it took. I don't know why they even stopped before they killed me. I guess they got bored." He shook his head despairingly. "I tried scratching an ankle and the guy s-spit on me." The disgust flooded through him again, the righteous anger and revulsion at being spit on like an animal. "You got the DNA, right?" He waved his hand vaguely in Sara's direction. "Check it. Please. And anything else. ...You really, really need to get these guys, Sara."

Silently, Sara took his hand in the air, holding it still. He finally felt her scraping under his fingernails and he grimaced, a tiny and uncomfortable itch compared to everything else. "You got something. With any luck it'll turn up a match," she said at length, her voice thick with emotion. "Haven't tested your clothes yet, but Nick texted me and said he got the transfer off the Denali. ...We _are_ gonna get these guys, Greg. You did your job, and a good one. You can relax now- we'll finish it out."

If only he could let himself believe that it was okay to at last hand over the torch and _sleep._

Sara gathered a few more pieces of evidence, letting them both lapse into silence. The only sound was his shallow breaths, uneven and raspy, and the occasional hollow sounding footstep as Sara moved.

At last, the CSI spoke up again. By now the adrenaline crash and night without sleep had finally gotten to him, restlessness and pain easing away to let him pass out at last. His guard had been steadily slipping down and it took effort to make himself focus on what was being said.

"Almost done. There's a few threads in a cut I need to extract and that'll be it. Then I'll let you sleep, all right?"

He nodded numbly, head lolling against his left shoulder. Fingers probed against his cheek, cautiously twisting into a cut; he squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered, hand fisting so tightly over the blanket his nails drew blood. Sara spoke quickly, voice carefully devoid of pity and apology both and fueled only as a much needed distraction. "I learned Norwegian from a non-CSI friend. Actually a professor of western European studies at the university- she taught me a little."

He felt the threads split away from the deep cut and gasped again, gripping tightly at the bed rail as if that could anchor himself in place. Sara's voice continued, the only hold he still had to keep him present. "Sure, I'm no natural, but I think I can manage okay. What do you say, Greg?"

Greg at last released the breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding when Sara stepped back, pain receding along with her until it was nothing more than a memory. He sighed, fatigue taking anguish's place, and let his head fall back against the pillow. "Y-your accent... could use some work..."

He heard Sara laugh, and with that, the last of the tension eased away. He breathed out again, long and easy, and with it, his left eye gradually slid open- the right, still too swollen. Sara's blurry, dark-haired figure stood with her back to him, working with bag in the corner.

The pain was worth it to smile.

"Morning."

She started in surprise, setting the evidence bags down and turning to look at him in confusion. He still couldn't see her well, and even as he watched she blurred to become two, but he could still see her smile.

"Welcome back, Greg."

A broken chuckle rumbled through his sore chest.. "Never left."

Tilting his head enough to look at her was hard, the strain forcing his headache up another notch, so he let his gaze fall back down. His unbroken hand lay in his line of sight, fingers tired and numb, and he frowned. It took him several seconds for his sluggish thoughts to understand why the sight left him uneasy, and when he at last did, his gut twisted in a sickening feeling of weakness.

"...No defensive wounds, huh?" He turned his hand over, unblemished knuckles strange on the stark white of the hospital bed.

He could feel Warrick pulling on his wrists at the gym, trying to fix his stance; hear Catherine lecturing him to go for the eyes and face, even Grissom doing his part and tossing him around like a rag doll until he'd learned enough to fight back. He'd gone home bruised and elated too many times to count- truly believing he'd at last learned how to stand up for himself.

What a joke that had been.

"Hey." Sara returned to his side, crouching down until they were eye to eye. "Listen. You did everything that could. So Gil or Nick or me would've done it differently. That's okay. You're not them. You're CSI Sanders, and in an impossible situation you intervened and saved a man's life. That's all anyone could've asked for. I can't say how I would've acted, but I can say that none of us could've fought off all those people. ...I don't know if I could've even gotten a punch in."

Greg tried to focus on her again, skeptical. "You just trying to make me feel better?"

Her lower lip trembled stubbornly, fighting against the CSI's attempts to smile at him. "Yes. And, I'm being honest. ...Is it working?"

If the weight on his heart had eased, it was only by a little, and not in a way he could put into words. He just turned his head away, exhaustion finding him again, saying nothing.

If Sara was dejected or disappointed it, she didn't show it. After a moment of silence, she simply just squeezed his hand and backed away, finishing to pack up her things. "I'm going to take these things down to the lab- get to work. ...For what it's worth, Greg?" She turned to face him again. "You did the right thing."

It didn't convince him, but he did believe that Sara believed it. And that helped.

The CSI was almost out the door when she turned back to face him once again, serious and unyielding. "Greg? I know you have your reasons. I'm not going to argue with that. But your mom obviously cares about you... I've heard you talking to her on the phone a few times. I can't really understand that well what it feels like, but- you're a CSI now. This won't be the last time something like this happens. She's going to have to get used to that, and you're not doing her any favors by hiding it. ...I really think you should call her. Not everyone has a parent who cares. You shouldn't leave yours in the dark because she cares about you, Greg."

Then she left, and Greg found himself feeling as alone as he had when he'd been lying in that alley.

* * *

" _You tell your mom that you risked your life to save someone else's, and I think she'll be very proud of you."_

Unspoken, but as as clear and certain and real as anything else Grissom had said thus far: _I'm proud of you._

Greg watched silently as the man turned his back and left the room, his mind spinning.

Of all things, that had been last on his list of what to expect.

Grissom was proud of him. _Grissom,_ who undoubtedly cared but would still sooner rebuke than praise, hunt out the last, tiny minute flaw before he'd acknowledge the hundred things done right.

If Grissom was praising him, then he _had_ done a good job. Sara wouldn't criticize him now of all times; even with impossibly high standards, to her, there was a time and a place; to Grissom, there wasn't. If Grissom was praising him, then that was the end of it, for him: he had finally managed to succeed as CSI Sanders.

Grissom's _I'm proud of you_ meant that he had managed to tackle the impossible, as Sara had dubbed it. And if he could handle that, then surely, he could handle calling his mother.

Because, Sara was right.

God forbid _this_ happening again; if being beaten down and left for dead and back allies was just a part of the job, Greg would've quit here and now. But part of being a CSI was putting himself in the line of fire; this was the only first time he was going to be hurt on the job. And sooner or later, his mom would find out.

Sooner or later, she'd know he'd been lying about still being in the lab.

He knew her. If she found out later on about this, about his job, she would only worry herself sick about what _other things_ he wasn't telling her. She'd pry and dig and just _worry,_ trying to find any other incidents, accidents, or attacks that had happened to him and the others at CSI.

Sara was right.

(As usual.)

Grissom had told him he'd done a good job as a CSI and a person. Sara had just told him to be a good person. When it came down to it, it really was that simple.

Cell phone grappled for, ten percent battery left ready to be put towards the best of use, Greg clumsily slid his thumb across the screen to unlock it and dialed the number he knew by heart.

" _Hello?"_

He swallowed the lump in his throat, heart squeezing painfully through an anxiety so powerful it made him feel almost as if he might throw up.

"Hi, Mom."

" _Oh, Greg, darling! I haven't heard from you in a week! I'm just going over to see your Nana Olaf; she's going to love to hear from you! Tell me, how are you? Still so busy?"_

He chuckled once, then stopped when his voice threatened to break. "I'm doing- um... I.." He stopped, phone gripped so tightly in his hand it hurt. "...Mom, I..." Greg shook his head, forcing himself to slow down and just breathe. "...I'm actually not doing too good."

" _...Gregory?"_

He took a deep breath, and then, he started to explain.


End file.
